


You Can Always Call On Me

by Golddragon387



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23164948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Golddragon387/pseuds/Golddragon387
Summary: Two kids with shared trauma. At least they have each other.
Relationships: Connie Maheswaran & Priyanka Maheswaran, Connie Maheswaran & Steven Universe, Connie Maheswaran/Steven Universe
Comments: 15
Kudos: 111





	You Can Always Call On Me

Looking back, she has difficulty pinpointing exactly when the recurring nightmare started. Thirteen years old is young for a normal human, and even more so for an ageless Gem hybrid, and human memories have a tendency to fade with time. But as far as Connie can remember, the terror of the dream has always started in the same way.

She is small. A chill white hand covers her mouth. Her arms are pinned to her sides by another arm. An arm that should not be so pale. So cold. So steely a vice.

And on a good night that is where the nightmare ends; just her, held motionless by the body of someone who loved her, without meaning to any struggle she could make. On a good night she does not look around.

It is rarely a good night.

Usually she sees Steven.

Sometimes he struggles. Sometimes he speaks, garbled half-remembered sentences that fade before she wakes, because they're never really the focus. Because when she sees Steven, no matter what he tries, he always gets grabbed. Dragged up from the floor, from where Connie can see to Her eye level.

Usually, she sees Steven torn apart.

How could that be any less agonizing on each retread than the first time? The familiar shape of the dance does not lessen the pain of each step, because still in dreams she can do nothing to stop Her, to save him.

And on all but the worst of nights, that is where the nightmare ends.

Because on the worst nights, she is set free to run through air thick as water as his human half falls limply from Her grasp, and Connie is never able to catch him, always too late to stop the crack as he hits the floor.

In her worst nightmares, she relives her best friend dying in her arms.

Connie was clever. She figured out early on, after a few of the worst ones, she could calm her heartbeat and steady her breath and stop her red-faced weeping by checking in on Steven.

Texts were easy. On even bad nights those were enough, the little confirmations that he was alive and well. She tried not to dwell on how often he was able to respond, how quickly he reassured her most nights. On worse nights, when she called or video chatted, how he seemed weary, but not bleary. Tired, but not freshly awoken.

Some nights he doesn't answer.

Steven spends months away rebuilding the shattered Gempire into something more equitable, and Connie spends sleepless nights in her loft bed holding onto hope and leaving little messages in his text inbox for when he's next on Earth.

Her heart soars when he responds to those, each one after the other in the order he got them. Connie wishes she could bottle that feeling, save it as a tonic to drink down when next he's away.

But then it's over, and he's home for good, and even with the hiccup that was Spinel she so hopes that Steven can move on and take some time to be human.

The first night he'd slept in her room, she'd spent nearly half a day curled up in her mother's lap unravelling lie and half-truth and fear and regret into tears that soaked her own shirt nearly as much as Priyanka's. But they had talked more, after, about healing and forgiveness.

Connie had apologised for lying. Mother had reminded her she was still only a child- that of course she was forgiven. Then *she* had apologised for letting the lies happen. For making the lies seem necessary. For not looking after her daughter as well as she could have. For letting her fight in a war that was never hers except by choice- a choice she shouldn't have been allowed to make.

Connie's bedroom door stayed open that night, but Steven was welcome to stay. His mattress fit easily under her loft bed, and he fit comfortably into her room, safe and sound. Both of them had been graced by the sandman with dreamless and restful sleep that night.

Steven's second night at the Maheswaran residence, she rode the nightmare until she woke in the usual way, eyes snapping open as she was bucked off, breathless and heaving her chest to try to tame the flow of her tears.

New and unexpected came his soft shuddering snore from below her own bed.

Welcome and relaxing was the sight of his soft, sleeping face, just a lean over the railing and a glance away. A little piece of heaven.

The dream was just a memory. He's here. She's here.

There was a catch in his breathing now, too, and then a light, not pink but the pale blue-white of a cellphone screen. She leaned over again, then noticed the little dim rectangles of light in his eyes. Eyes that met hers.

His eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks as tear-marked as her own had been hardly a minute before. Surely he saw the redness rimming her eyes, even by reflected phonelight.

So her legs came free of her bedclothes, she straightened her nightie, and Connie swung down from her bed onto Steven's (the ladder creaked when she went down it. Considering her father had built it from a kit, she suspected this was intentional).

His arms were already free of the covers. He didn't make any move to remove the rest of his body, but neither did she move to join him. Hugs really only need arms, anyway. His phone flicked off, and there was a creak from down the hallway, but neither of them noticed.

Tightly each of the two held the other, whispered conversation confirming what they'd long dreaded- or perhaps suspected, or even in some dark way hoped- that though magically unlinked, their nightmares were the same. Oh, the fears may have been different, or the details, but the memories and the terrors were the same.

Two hopeful heartbeats slowed and settled into a beautiful, complete, and complementary tempo and counter-tempo.

That was how Priyanka found them, huddled close with a blanket between them, arms around each other and comforts and reassurances coming as much from their whispers as from their physical contact.

That was how she left them, too. She still (mostly) trusted her daughter, after all.

But she subtly kicked her bedside table as she returned, knocking it against the bedframe with a thump- just to keep the kids honest.

**Author's Note:**

> So how about them new episodes??? I was going to get the rest of my jam week stuff published, but... that needs _heavy_ rewriting if I want it to be canon compliant, now, so I'll be taking a while to do that. Still, this came into my head after a discussion on a friend's Discord, and I hope you all enjoy it.  
> Ten points to the house of whomever guesses the song reference in the title first.


End file.
